


The Talking Fedora

by RhododendronWilliams



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Fedora, Gen, Magical Pregnancy, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, men's rights activists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:53:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhododendronWilliams/pseuds/RhododendronWilliams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A talking fedora comes into Night Vale, causing problems especially for people with wombs. Can Sheriff's Secret Police stop the monstrous multiplication of the fedoras and their toxic views? (Pre-Strex, Carlos is briefly mentioned. Written like an episode of WTNV.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Talking Fedora

The  sand is silent today. The faint humming you hear is coming from somewhere else. You will soon see where. It’s coming closer all the time.

Welcome… to Night Vale.

Dear listeners, a talking fedora has arrived in Night Vale today. While not the first sentient hat in town, it is definitely the loudest one so far. The fedora was first spotted at Jerry's Tacos, where it hung in mid-air, complaining loudly about illegal immigration, tax payers’ money being wasted,  and cheap foreign food ruining the health of Americans.

"Eat what you want for all I care," the fedora announced in a loud, nasally voice. "But don't come crying to me when you get food poisoning, or find a rat tail in your taco." The fedora left without ordering, but the customers' relief turned into shock when it was discovered that all customers with a womb had been impregnated. The pregnancies advanced at an alarming rate, and within three hours, all 20 people had given birth. The babies, all boys, grew from adorable infants to sullen teenagers in two hours. They soon began to complain about the uprise of feminism and the emasculation of the American man, before slouching off to write non-con fan fiction about My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

"He's my son and I love him, I guess," said Leann Hart, editor of the Night Vale Journal, of her newborn son Jesse Hart. "I mean, he was only just born and he's a bit of a handful. I wish he didn't have that men's rights blog." Listeners, I decided to take a look at this blog. Jesse's latest post is titled "Bikini Babes? More Like Beached Whales!", and it takes a critical look at the bikini bodies of popular actresses. Hmm, well.. Oh now that's.. that's rather harsh.

Let me make a station editorial. I wish to plead to the new young citizens of our town. Those of us in service of the public, be it through newspapers, blogs or community radio, wield a lot of power. We must remember our responsibility when discussing such delicate matters. Let us think of, for instance, our own Megan Wallaby, the young girl who was born as a grown man's hand and recently attached to a Russian man's body. How would she feel looking at this blog? Why should she be made to feel less than, just because she resides in the body of a bald middle-aged man?

So young, newly-born boys of Night Vale, use your verbal powers for the good. 

And now, Community Health Tips. Do you know your cholesterol? Have you checked? Here's how to find out. Take a vial of your own blood to your backyard at night. Stare at the moon, and while howling and pulling at your hair, throw the vial over your left shoulder. Then turn to look at your blood pooling into the ground. If the blood seeps right into the soil, you have normal cholesterol. If it stays on the ground, you have high cholesterol. If the blood gathers up and forms a creature of horrifying magnitude, RUN. This has been Community Health Tips.

Dear listeners, this just in: the teenage boys born earlier today have turned into fedoras. They left their mothers and began to flock together, mumbling things like “She friendzoned me hard, man” and “There was an element of palpable bitchery”. Meanwhile, a new batch of sullen teenagers has already been born, after the original talking fedora made its way to Big Rico's Pizza, where it lectured about hard-hitting topics such as child custody cases and men's right to pornography. Some hours ago, the fedora disappeared into the post office, and hasn't been heard of since.

The newborn fedoras made their way to the vacant lot out back of the Ralph's. Citizens with a womb are warned to stay indoors, keep their doors and windows shut, and above all, not to make eye contact with any of the fedoras. The Sheriff's Secret Police is working overtime to solve this problem.

And now, a word from our sponsors.

Silence. Only stars twinkle in the darkness You hear the sound of a train, coming closer and closer. You see the lights of the train. That’s when you realize you are tied to the tracks. You try to wiggle yourself free, you tug and pull, but the ropes only grow tighter. The train gets closer and closer, and you hear a maniacal laughter from right beside you. You turn to see your tormentor, and it’s your own father, laughing with a mouth full of glistening white teeth. You wish you too had used Pepsodent. Pepsodent – an oral care system in a tube.

This just in: as a surprise to no one, Steve Carlsberg was heard agreeing with the fedora in all its points. He said it's about time someone defends the rights of men, especially cisgender heterosexual ones. He even hinted that the voice of Night Vale has to be gay, because Station Management wanted to promote diversity, instead of hiring the best man for the job. Now you listen here, Steve! I was picked for my sweet sonorous voice. My sexual preferences don't enter into it, as I barely talk about my private life here anyway. If you didn't get the job, maybe it's because you have a voice that could grate a carrot, and a personality to match. I hope the Sheriff’s Secret Police dispose of you when they get rid of all those fedoras.  

I’ve just received word that the Sheriff’s Secret Police are on the scene in the vacant lot behind the Ralph’s. They have surrounded the fedoras and are talking into a megaphone, telling the head garments to disperse. The secret bloodhounds are ready to rip them into pieces if there should be resistence, and freshly redecorated cell blocks await them. As you know, each cell comes with HBO On Demand, and the prisoners get one hour each day for exercise and/or blood stone circle activities. The fedoras’ families were not reached for comment. In fact, several of them seem to have fled town, probably out of shame for their ridiculous progeny.

 

Bad news, ladies and gentlemen. Just as the Sheriff’s Secret Police had the fedoras surrounded, some of them began to talk to the police officers. “Police _officer_ , such a fancy title isn’t it?” they said, apparently in unison. “Whatever happened to police _man_? Doesn’t it have a nicer, more heroic ring to it? Officer is such a sad word, isn’t it? And when you think of how few women are in the police force, it’s pretty weird that the title had to be changed. Unless women are on top and men are being subjugated. In the police force, where most cops and criminals are male.” The officers began to stir and feel rather confused in their status. Soon they were fighting each other, as some of them felt that they do indeed want to be called police _men_. “My wife nags at me every night,” roared one officer, near tears. “She cannot stand it when I have blood on my uniform. She refuses to believe that it’s necessary for me to do night shifts. And…” Here he burst into tears, “She still uses writing utensils and I can’t get her to stop!” There was a silence, and heavy condemnation built up over the head of this officer, who shall remain nameless. He realized what he had said, but it was too late – the secret handcuffs were already around his wrists, and unremovable as they are, will remain there for the rest of his life. The officer and his wife have been taken to cells in the abandoned mineshaft outside of town. Unfortunately, in all this commotion, the fedoras have multiplied tenfold. There are hundreds of them, dear listeners. They are filling all the streets, trying to get into every house in town. I hear some outside my studio right now, banging at the door. Intern Logan, don’t let them in. Intern Logan? Logan?? ..Oh dear. Logan, what has happened to your head??

“I finally came to my senses, that’s what! I have realized that women are trying to emasculate me, and there are no real men anymore! Everyone’s gay or trans.. um, no offense..”

..Logan, your head has turned into a giant fedora. Your body is disappearing into thin air!

“Yeah well, all the better isn’t it? Women objectify men sooo much, and laugh at our bodies, even if we’re not allowed to say _anything_ about them, no matter what they look like. And what’s with all that talk about their period? Ugh! I don’t need to hear that shit! Let’s talk about penises! Let’s…”

Dear listeners, please send help! The fedoras are at my studio door and they are filing in! They are filling every surface in the studio! My voice can barely be heard.. ugh..

“..she friendzoned me, man! I said to her, wtf woman? I carried those boxes when you moved, why do you think I did that? Because I wanna talk to you about your boyfriends? “ “I’m not homophobic, racist or sexist but I really think minorities and women are..” “A fedora is a stylish garment! There’s nothing wrong with a fedora, why does everyone assume that because I’m a fedora…”

Listeners, I can barely hear myself right now. I am almost suffocated by the fedoras. There is grey cloth wherever I look, and the smell of entitlement is almost making me faint. But as a radio professional, I will try to keep a cool head – keep _a_ head – on my shoulders, and do the only thing I can: give you..

The Weather.

[ Sweet Lullaby by Deep Forest.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JG0pegmmB5A)

Dear listeners, the fedoras have left our town. Just as their screaming and shouting became almost unbearable, an immense gust of wind swept through town, and a giant blue man appeared. He carefully picked each fedora onto his enormous head, looked around with his white glowing eyes, and then just.. disappeared. No fedora was left in town. So our newborn citizens were gone too soon, and my sincere condolences go to their families, as relieved as they may be. We may never see these young boys again, but we can always check out their blogs. They will be remembered by the tenacious spirit with which they shouted out their awful views. Like Jesse’s blog says, “Sorry I’m not a woman or a minority, but this is MY BLOG and if you don’t like it, you’re probably a man-hating feminist.”

To the family and loved ones of Intern Logan, please don’t think badly of him, wherever he may be now. He is currently helping a very large blue man be less cold. And perhaps feel better about his politics, in the process. He was a great intern, while he was still human, and will be missed.

To the rest of us, life is beginning to return into its normal flow. The arguments have died down, people are relishing the silence, and hearing again what the wind sounds like, how it quietly strokes the windchimes on our porches. We can hear ourselves think. We can think with our own brain.

The Sheriff’s Secret Police is hosting a mandatory hat-burning party tonight at the vacant lot out back of the Ralph’s. Every hat in town, no matter what material, make or model, _must_ be brought to the bonfire. There will be helicopters surveying that you all do so. It’s a shame, I had grown pretty fond of this hat Carlos has. He only wears it for special occasions, but it’s a very attractive gray hat. It has a pinch-front, teardrop-shaped crown, and I guess you could call it a.. fedora.  

Well, listeners, let us not hang onto the past. After all, the most beautiful crown of a perfect man’s head is his luscious, shiny, softly flowing _hair_. Why cover it up with anything?

Stay tuned next for the sound of borscht soup being spooned onto seemingly endless plates.

Good night, Night Vale, good night. 

 


End file.
